


Think of me

by enthugger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee, Getting Together, Kind of Poetry, Kissing, M/M, Morning Kisses, Short & Sweet, bad iliad references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 03:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/pseuds/enthugger
Summary: “I’m outside,” Enjolras says, simple and steady, and Grantaire doesn’t put down his coffee; he doesn’t even hang up the phone, he simply goes.





	Think of me

Think of Grantaire in the morning, tugging an old t-shirt over his head, running a hand through his bed-rumpled hair, simple domesticity. Think of how simple it all must look from the outside, when so many people in his life go through routines so simply, putting foot after foot on chilly carpeted floors, putting on the kettle, checking a morning’s worth of missed texts and new emails. Think of Grantaire, who sometimes finds that rolling over in bed is itself too much effort, or not effort so much as it’s simply too much altogether.

So, instead, think of Grantaire in the morning. And maybe it’s well into the afternoon on a slow day off, but for him it’s the morning and he makes coffee, slowly and meticulously, like he’s going to appreciate something about its flavors rather than just the rush of caffeine. Maybe it’s one of those not-quite-mornings when his fingers think about sketching or he simply stands, coffee in hand, in front of his fridge and makes bastardized quotes out of scattered word magnets - an old gift from Jehan. Maybe he’s briefly amused by his own wit (sing, goddess, of the anger of a man forced to wake up before noon on a weekend) and is distraced by the buzzing of his phone.

When he sees the name, he almost doesn’t answer it. But today, imagine that he does. Think of the edges of sleep at the corners of his voice, of the way he’s unable to keep the confusion out of his tone when he says, “Enjolras?”

And think of Enjolras on the other end, disarmed by the very idea of him, think that it is truly madness that Grantaire hasn’t noticed it himself.

“I’m outside,” Enjolras says, simple and steady, and Grantaire doesn’t put down his coffee; he doesn’t even hang up the phone, he simply goes.

Think of Grantaire in the morning, barefoot on the outside steps of his building, a mug in one hand and the ghost of a smile on his lips. Think of Enjolras, golden in the early afternoon sun, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear like he’s distracted because god, how could he not be when Grantaire is here, smiling and painted so beautifully with the strokes of domesticity.

Enjolras asks a question, just one. And think of Grantaire’s eyes going wide for a moment, before he breaks. Think of how he tries to say something like, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that I was still asleep.”

When Enjolras kisses him, gentle and slow, winding his arms around Grantaire’s neck, feeling the rough brush of stubble against his face, and tasting coffee on his tongue, Grantaire can do nothing but kiss back, shocked and greedy all at once. He wants to savor the moment, but he can’t help taking in as much of Enjolras as he posssibly can.

After a minute of kissing, Grantaire turns to rest his forehead against Enjolras’s huffing out a gentle laugh.

“My hands are full,” he murmurs into the space between them, nonsensical and utterly perfect and Enjolras laughs too. It’s true, he’s still holding the coffee mug and his phone, clenched agianst his chest so he can press as closely against Enjolras as possible. “I’m sorry, but if we’re going to keep doing this, I’ll need my hands. It’s a requirement.”

And Enjolras, whose own hands are pushed up into Grantaire’s hair, strokes once through the curls at the nape of his neck before he reluctantly pulls back.

“Lead the way.”

Think of Grantaire in the morning, with his hand slipped under Enjolras’s shirt to rest against the small of his back and know that this morning, at least, is a happy one.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a kind of weird, poetc, experimental thing i wrote a while ago which is hopefully not Too weird. hit me up on tumblr @williamvapespeare to talk about these good kids


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